That shinigami, his prime
by Undertaker Riddle
Summary: The Undertaker is known by all that have ever read and seen Kuroshitsuji. Who's the man behind the bangs, though? This story takes you through the last of his career. It involves a few Oc's, but only because it's absolutely necessary. Rating may change.


**This is my second fanfic to post on here and I hope you enjoy it. I've worked really hard, so please don't get discouraged if it takes a while for me to post again. I'm going to work on this story more than I've worked on any other, so…yeah. I believe you get the picture. Thank you for reading and please enjoy!**

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_**Act I: Coming Home**_

"Why?" The middle-aged man feebly sobbed. He was a rather short, fat man with deep brown hair that was speckled with the silver locks of age. A true Italian. The said Italian had suffered a fatal heart attack in an abandoned alleyway. Now, though, death's call had finally answered. "My, my, my~ You were scheduled to die much sooner. I hope you realize how much overtime this forced on me." A deep, monotone voice chided. The man was too weak to do anything but glance at his judge through a hazy vision. As he saw it, that man was tall and clothed in a fine black suit. A pale glare from the moon shone on his face and crept down his body to highlight his long, mystically silver hair. The man fell out on the earth with a dull thud. The second man's cool vision traced the body as he pulled his scythe through him. At the simple touch, a film reel erupted from the spot he touched. "Alfonso Rossi. Born January fifth, XXXX to Alonzo and Amalia Rossi. No special remarks. Judgment completed."

He stated as he swung his scythe again; this time through the film. It was easily severed by the touch of the used blade. The man, Mr. Rossi, was no more. His soul had gone to seek its one final destination. Though the man wasn't one to wish for that, the soul did, and so it went. The man that remained stood silent for a moment. "'Hold this dear, for death is near. Evade the eyes of the reaper.'" He murmured. The short line from the longer poem had stuck with him-just as his once lively friend had told him it would. The reaper's scythe vanished as he let his hand relax to his side. After slipping his book into a hidden pocket inside his coat, he turned to the wall with closed eyes. A tripled second later, a shallow, dark pink and swirling purple appeared on the wall and spread. The man stepped through to a field. The said field held what looked like a replica of London. There was a clock tower, a few Victorian-style buildings, and, most prominent of all, a luminous library.

Grand, white marble was the making of the building. He walked to and up the stairs with a wide, yet balanced, gait. The man glanced back once, only once, at the brightly shining moon that existed in the tub realms he most often visited. Inside, the library was dimly lit thanks to the scarcity of candles. He continued to walk with the same pace until meeting the open section where you would be liable to see the grand staircase that led up to the second floor. The second floor had its own staircase which, in turn, led to the third floor. He continued to walk at the same pace up the stairs. When he came to the top floor, he turned right as soon as his foot touched the floor. The reaper continued walking until he met an office door with a finely brandished plaque that read 'Head reaper.' Producing a key from the same pocket that held the stored black book, he unlocked the door and snuck inside. Once again he glanced back-again only once. Yes, you could say that the man was a cautious one, but it came from years of being stabbed in the back. The term, in this case, being both literal and metaphorical. Though, one case did happen to involve the severing of his left hand's pinky finger. After he shut the door behind him, he turned to face the office. It was a rater quaint room with few things and an air of neatness around it. Centered in the room was a mahogany desk and a matching chair.

The chair was finely crafted with a shining polish on it. On the chair's back, arms, and seat were black leather cushions fastened by rounded silver nails that were neatly placed in the wood. The desk was also finely shaven and polished. It held six drawers, all the same size, and a black leather mat resting on the top of the center of the desk. Beside the desk was a black metal waste bin that held few crumpled papers. The room's overall smell was that of the polish-meddled with that of ink, paper, and other office supplies-and the small source of constant fresh air coming from the office plant that rested on an iron holder. The plant was a common ficus, while the holder was a magnificent vine design that looked as if it grew around the plant itself. The desk and chair set was placed on a black, square rug that, in turn, sat on the dark beige carpeting. Yes, the room was rather dark, but it wasn't ominous in the slightest. On the contrary, it had a rather decent, almost homey touch to it. The reaper sighed lightly as he sat in the chair and removed a key from his pocket. Placing the key in the top drawer's lock, he turned it and opened the drawer to pull out a candle along with a box of matches. Though he only needed to double-check his "to-die" book to make sure everything was on track-which admittedly took about five minutes-he liked to work by the light since the office lacked a window. The only office that lacked one, to be specific. He pulled out and then flipped through the book quickly. Sure enough, everything was on schedule.

Slowly, he placed the book in the drawer he had opened and shut it quietly. The drawer closed easily, for it was well-oiled for this very purpose. This nightly endeavor had become routine to him. He turned it and, after replacing the said key into his pocket, stood up. The man then bent over his desk slightly to blow out the candle. Before the light went out, though, it softly illuminated his features. He had an angular face with pale-toned skin. Silver tresses framed his face in a rather off fashion. In the middle of his face a bang hung that went past his nose in the longest peak. On the sides were bangs that fell longer than his chin. Oddly cut glasses covered his eyes, while the dim glare from the candle hid his eyes. The glasses had a rectangular cut with an added edge on the bottom left and right corners. The frames of the glasses were black and cradled the glass from all sides, except the top. His eyebrows were thinly cut and matched both the color of his hair and well-kept style. The frame his silver hair created complimented his smooth, young face. The man straightened himself and again went to the wall to pull forth a portal that he used to walk through. This time, though he appeared on a deserted backstreet that wasn't unlike the one that he had been in earlier that night. Walking briskly, he made a few turns and chose his unusual path he knew to make his way home. In a few minutes he had come to a stop in front of the old home he loved…with the ones that he loved inside. The apartment was a common two story that had a dull brown color to it.

For the last time that night, he withdrew a key from inside his coat's inner pocket and used it to open the door in front of him. He walked in, closed and locked the door, then carefully tiptoed upstairs. Once up the staircase, he started to go through the careful process of preparing himself for bed without waking his love. After successfully getting ready for bed, he pulled up the covers slowly. Carefully-and oh so painfully slowly-he lowered himself onto the comfortable bed; all the while keeping a watchful eye on her. When he had finally laid down in the bed, he, just as slowly, pulled the covers back over himself. After about twenty minutes of this careful behavior, he had finally settled in with his arms wrapped loosely around her swollen stomach. "Glad you decided to make it, love." A quiet voice chided. He sighed softly. "I didn't mean to wake you." He said apologetically. "You didn't…" She replied. "Did you really stay up this entire time?" He asked a after a brief moment of hesitation. "No, I've been in and out of sleep." She admitted. "Why?" He asked, slightly worried. If she had been unable to sleep because of him-"Your son is being very energetic." She chuckled. "Really? I thought your daughter would know better than to do that." He replied with a humble grin. The reaper kissed her cheek softly as he made himself more comfortable. "Goodnight, love," Were the last whispered words in the night.

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**I thank you for reading! Please R&R. Also, I have a few footnotes to point out.**

**I know that it's thought that shinigami aren't able to reproduce, but I'm saying that they can. That's how they get their new recruits and, since humans and immortals seem to have such bad relationships, I thought that it would be extremely rare for a shinigami to fall for a human, especially if they knew that the time together was limited.**

**In the title, "Shinigami" means "reaper" or "death god." Aka, grim reaper.**

**The line "Hold this dear, for death is near. Beware the eyes of the reaper." Is a made up line that I wrote a poem around. If you're interested enough that you want to read it, include it in the review and I'll send it.**


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